All Partial Evil : part I
by ButNothing
Summary: AU Wolverine OC: CHAPTER 6: The lack of evidence for something is not evidence to the contrary.
1. The Choice

_Caveat lector - reader be aware_

First: English is NOT my native language and I don't live in a English speaking country, so forgive me all my grammatical errors etc. If you have something to say about the language, please email ( I would really appreciate all suggestions you might have), but don't rant about it in the reviews, OK?

Second: This is an alternative universe. Don't expect to know how things work or how they should work. "These are my rules. I made them up." (George Carlin) So don't bother to post reviews about that either. I already KNOW it's not canon, even if it is based on the movieverse. But if you do have something to say about the pot per se, feel free to do so. I would even appreciate it.

Third: As this is an AU story, don't expect to know Wolverine/Logan. My rules and all, remember?

Fourth: I sincerely hope you enjoy it, as I have something to say about being a mutant and about Wolverine.

Fifth: This is my first fan fic and my first story in English.

Sixth: I know all about Mary-Sues, so no need to rant about that either ;)

**Rating:M **This is a violent reality. There will be blood, tears and swearing; death and despair before there is hope.

**Disclaimer: **All the characters known from Marvel Universe and the idea of the Marvel Universe belong to Marvel, we all know that. All the rest is mine or my interpretation. No money was made and I never expected it (But hey, it doesn't give you any right to use MY characters/ideas, bub. ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

**1. The Choice  
**

I found him lying prone on the forest floor half covered in mud, leaves and brown dried blood. His hands were bent under his chest, as if he had been holding something when he fell. But there was nothing there now.

I sat down on my haunches a few steps away waiting for the right time to approach him. The earth beneath me was moist from recent rains and I could feel the dormant life in it beginning to awake from Winter's Sleep. I let my consciousness merge into the surrounding forest and I felt the scent of his body in my nose. The wound on his side was almost healed now, but the damp smell of fresh blood was still on him. I drifted past it and felt the wound closing. It shouldn't be long now.

His body stirred slightly. I moved closer and laid my hand on his upper arm before his was fully awake so that my presence would not come as a surprise to him. I felt his muscles move and then a deep breath. I moved back to where I had been and squatted down again.

He pushed himself up a bit, then rested on his elbows looking at his knuckles and chest. He shook his head and pushed himself onto his right side while being cautious of his now only bruised left flank. He was still slightly disoriented, but his eyes were fixed on me and I saw him thinking hard, assembling his mind back into a coherent whole. I gave him all the time he needed and remained still with my arms on my knees, looking at him passively. He pulled his legs under him after awhile and sat up leaning heavily on his right hand. He bent his head a bit and took two or three shallow breaths. The wound was obviously still bothering him, but his eyes never left me.

"So," he said with a low, hoarse voice, "How long have I been out cold for?"

"Hard to say exactly. Maybe a day. Or a bit more."

He remained silent for a while measuring me with his eyes. I gave him a small reassuring smile, but otherwise held my passive stance.

"And you just happened to stumble upon me while, what - pickin' berries?"

"No, you're right," I replied with a smile, "My friends found you and sent me word."

"Friends?"

"Aye. I reckon they were worried about you. And a bit startled too, I guess."

"And where are your friends now?" he said with a sarcastic smirk, "They just left you here all alone with a dyin' man and went home?"

I had to smile again, though not at him. "I suppose so. My friends are easily distracted and have more important things on their minds right now."

"So, it's just you now." A statement, not a question.

"Aye, just me," I said remaining motionless on my heels. I took the canteen from my belt, opened it and drank a mouthful. "You must be thirsty," I said and leaned forward placing the canteen on the ground near him. He waited until I had moved back before picking it up. He drank with small slow sips holding pauses between swallows. He screwed the cap back on when he was done and held the canteen out toward me.

"Thanks. I needed that."

I knew well what to expect when I reached for the canteen, but his speed was still astonishing. He dropped the canteen when I was just about to take it, grabbed my throat and drew me down onto my knees.

"Well," he sneered at me, "I ain't dead yet." He twisted my head sideways with his steel hard grip and felt his way through my belt and pockets with his left hand. He pulled my knife out and threw it far into the undergrowth. I kept my hands slightly raised away from my sides, palms open toward him.

"There really is no need for this."

"I'll be the judge of that," he growled and twisted my head even further. "I could just wring your fuckin' neck, you know." There was no doubt about the malicious tone, but I more felt than heard a hint of underlying hesitation.

"I know," I whispered through my teeth. His thumb was pressing hard against my artery just below the jawbone and I felt the pulse of my own circulation.

Suddenly the malevolence in him subsided. He tipped his head curiously and sniffed the air. He turned my head to stare straight into my eyes with a hard frown.

"But I might have other ideas to try out before that," he said with a sinister smirk, but the emotion was not there to back up the words. I met his eye and let my hands rest on my thighs. The evening sun was warm on my back, but the shadows had already grown cold.

"It's going to be a cold night," I said, not wanting to spend a cold spring night outdoors. He wrinkled his brow in sudden puzzlement and, for a fleeting moment, I was not so sure about this after all. But then he laughed wholeheartedly.

"You really are somethin' else." His expression turned grave. "I'm gonna let you breath for a while longer, bub." He tightened his grip around my throat. "But don't get any ideas. Your sad life is mine to take." He held on for a while longer before letting me go. He sat back and for the first time looked away from me. He flexed his fists, rubbed his knuckles and let his hand drop to his lap.

I let my eyes rest on his broad shoulders for a little while, then inhaled deeply and drifted past the clothing. I touched briefly the dry, leathery skin before I delved deeper into him.

I found traces of constant hunger in his muscles. Signs of repeated injuries, still healing. Strain, dehydration, malnutrition. His body had opted to scavenge itself when there had not been enough food and water to sustain the regeneration. _It could be your gift, your cure that kills you_, I thought while moving through the veins and tendons. _Nature plays it cruelest jokes on us._

Then there was something else. Something deep inside him. Something that was not supposed to be there, but that nevertheless was part of him. Something hard. Cold. An electric taste of - steel?

I fled from him.

I fled too fast. The muscles on my shoulders convulsed violently forcing me to gasp sharply. I felt like choking, fought to breath again as an other spasm shook my sides. I retched and pushed my hands against the ground in need to feel something sound and solid. The earth's warm firmness took a hold of my hands and seeped upward through my arms. The spinning stopped and I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with a touch of curiosity in his eyes.

"Feelin' a bit giddy, are we?"

"Ah'll be. Fine. In a while." My sides hurt and I wondered whether I had fractured a rib with my stupidity. Christ, it hurt to breath out, so I knew I must have. I decided not to take a closer look. An inward delve would cut me off from the world for the duration and it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway. Instead I let the muscles in the small of my back do the breathing. It did lessen the pain a little as the pressure against the fractured rib decreased. I managed to sit upright again.

He in turn picked up the canteen and offered it to me. "You must be thirsty," he aped me mockingly. I laughed and took the canteen. He smiled sardonically while I drank.

"We need more water," I said as I clasped the canteen back to my belt. "There's only a quarter of a canteen left." He frowned thoughtfully looking past me with narrow eyes.

"Alright," he said focusing at me, "What the hell, lets get some water." He smiled and prepared to push himself up.

"Do you mind if I get my back knife first?" I said. It was a good knife, well crafted and it fit my hand perfectly. No harm in asking, I thought.

"Yeah, why not." He stood up and started to brush the muck off from his clothes. His wound appeared to be completely healed now. I got up and walked to the direction he had thrown the knife to. I found it gleaming amongst the green but leafless blueberry stalks and picked it up. I heard his steps behind me, but he snatched my hand by the wrist before I had the chance to say anything.

"I still own your life, don't you forget it," he hissed into my ear while holding my neck with his left hand. He pushed me forward forcing me to stoop.

"I know."

"Good, 'cause your gonna take me home with you - bub." I watched the back of the hand that was gripping my wrist and the taste of steel filled my mouth again. There was something in those hands, moving, itching to penetrate the skin. I twitched, fighting off the beginning of an involuntary delve. He pulled me up into close contact with him.

"In case you get any ideas about me and that knife." He changed his hold to take my fist and the knife in it. "I let you keep the blade, 'cause there's nothing you can do with it." He moved my hand to his thigh and drove the blade all the way into the muscle. He pulled the knife out and blood poured from the wound. "This," he said and dipped his thumb into the blood, "is all your little knife can do." He smeared the blood onto my cheek with a slow stroke. "Just remember," he breathed into my ear, "it could just as easily be your blood, on my face."

I was beginning to doubt my dream.

* * *

_In this dream I'm walking in a forest of tall aspens, their silver grey trunks rising far above me like living rows of balustrades. A tender summer breeze moves through the forest and the sound of quivering aspen leaves follows in its wake. The light is soft and warm, and I am filled with serenity._

_I come to the edge of the forest and I stop, unable to walk any further. Beyond the trees a sun-burnt expanse of fields shimmers in the haze of a hard august sun so bright, that it obscures the view. I screw up my eyes in the sun as a vague form appears in the distance. I wait and I see that it is a dark man with broad shoulders walking toward me. The sun's smouldering warmth burns my face, but the forest behind me is cool and soothing and I hold my ground._

_Burning heat ripples the figure and, as I blink, the man disappears and in his place I see a huge war hound with long black hackles. It jogs effortlessly until it reaches the fringe of the forest where it sits down, remaining in the sun, but looking intensely at me. Its mouth is open, the long tongue hangs out and I notice streaks of blood in its ruffled coat. It licks its lips, swallows and turns its head to look back into the blaze, but then turns back to me, its auburn eyes burning._

_I turn my back to the dog and the fields and start walking back into the heart of the forest. I stop when I feel a cold wet muzzle in my hand and I turn around. The dark man is standing right behind me with auburn eyes gleaming behind a long ruffled hair. I don't see his face, but then again, I never do. And the war hound is there too, inside him, and I can't tell whether it is the man that I am seeing or the dog. But they both share the same eyes._

_I wake up._

_I lay awake in my bed watching through the window how bands of colored lights weave their way across the winter night. The dancing reds and greens keep me focused as I memorize my dream._

_The auburn eyes stay with me through that winter and when the crow taps at my window one morning, I once again feel the muzzle in my hand._

* * *

It took us good thirteen hours to cover the distance between the grove where I had found him, and my home. He followed my lead through the rugged landscape, but insisted on deciding the pace himself. The pace and the harshness of land took their toll on him, though he didn't let it show. The only sign was our slowing gait.

He did allow one stop, a short rest long over due, in the wee hours of the night. I sat down and leaned my back against an old, twisted pine-tree. It was a crisp, starlit night, and I had ended up not minding having to spend it outdoors. The stars were so bright, that I felt being pulled to them, to the sky, to the space beyond. I closed my eyes and merged with the tree. I didn't want to go.

The darkness was beautifully silent. The pine swayed with the soft wind, rustling, and I moved with it. Night's little creatures moved unseen amidst the undergrowth and I followed their small, warm bodies on their nightly journeys.

I found a larger creature moving quietly towards us in the darkness. I opened my eyes to find him already on his feet staring intensely into the woods. I got up and walked to him.

A lonesome wolf slipped out from the shadows. It halted and looked at us warily, keeping its head low and moving from side to side. It took few tentative steps towards us and stopped again to sniff the air.

The man next to me crouched slightly, ready to fight the wolf if need be. I laid my hand gently on his forearm. He shied at my touch, but I didn't let him break the contact.

"No," I whispered, "hold still. Wait." He eyed the wolf for a while longer, but then relaxed and straightened up. The wolf began to circle us coming slowly closer.

"It's just curious," I said watching the approaching animal. "It smells the death in you." His arm winced under my hand and he glanced sharply at me. I payed no attention.

Suddenly the wolf jogged straight at and past us, sniffing his leg in passing. It continued toward the trees, but paused briefly to give us an indifferent look over its shoulder before disappearing into the dark.

I stayed there looking at the tree line and chuckled. "How appropriate," I thought out loud. He looked at me. "A wolf at the hour of the wolf. How about that." A quick smile flashed across his face.

We set forth once again.

* * *

I stepped first to the porch and walked to unlock the door. He kept his fist between my shoulder blades through all that and pushed me forward when I opened the front door.

"Stop. Stay." I did as he told and stood there in the middle of my living room. He walked to the table and shoved a chair next to me. "Sit." I did.

He sniffed the air and looked around. "Give me the keys to your gun locker." I pulled the key ring from my jacket pocket and tossed it to him. He snatched it from midair and pushed the keys in to his jeans' pocket. "The spare keys?"

"In that tin box on the third shelf." He put those in his pocket as well. He turned around and walked across the dimly lit room to me. The shutters were still closed. He came to stand in front of me, arms crossed, looking thoughtfully down at me.

"I'm gonna eat somethin' and then I'm off," he said. He rubbed his eye with the back of his hand and sighed with arms akimbo. "Haven't decided what I'm gonna do with you though."

He turned to leave, halted putting his head to one side as if to say something more, hesitated and took off to the kitchen. Half way across the room his knees gave way under him and he fell heavily to the floor. He started to get up, but his legs just didn't seem to have the strength for it. He kept on trying, movements turning frantic, but then he slumped back to the floor and gave up.

"Shit."

I stood up and walked around him. I sat down on my haunches in front of him and lifted my hand to hold his shoulder, but he furiously shoved my hand away, a low growl rising from his throat. His muscles started to shiver.

"What the hell's goin' on?" he asked no-one in particular. I closed my eyes and delved in him briefly.

"You're dying." His eyes shot up at me in disbelief. "Your nervous system is collapsing."

"The hell I am."

"Well, not right now you're not, but eventually yes." He looked down.

"No fuckin' way," he said shaking his head.

"Yes."

"Shut the fuck up!" He aimed a punch at my jaw, but the stroke went wide landing to my left shoulder. "I can't die!"

"Aye you can and you will." He grabbed me by the arm and tried desperately to stare me down.

"You don't fuckin' get it. I'm not able to die," he growled. I said nothing. He let my arm go and pulled back.

"Your serious," he said half asking, half reassuring himself. He fell silent and stared at the floor boards. "I don't get it."

I changed into a squat and rested my chin on my shoulder.

"I've tried every damn way to kill myself and every time I've woken up all healed. And yesterday I thought that's it, I can't die, and now you," he looked accusingly at me. "Now you're tellin' me that hell yeah, actually I am dying." His eyes narrowed and he started to shake all over in rage. I stood up to get out of his way.

"Looks to me like you finally got what you wanted," I said. He winced at that. "It will take time, a long time, before you actually die, before your healing ability does enough damage while trying to repair your body. But with all the injuries you have inflicted on yourself and the lack of food and dehydration combined, your body will eat itself out - kind of." He seemed to be considering that. The shaking died out and he looked tired. I sat down again.

"How long will it take?" he said after a long silence.

"I would bet my money on a month." He turned his head away. "But only if you stop eating and drink next to nothing." I sighed. "It won't be nice." He turned his head to look at me.

"Well, you gotta take what's been given," he said smiling mordantly. I saw the old hound in his auburn eyes and I knew what my dream was all about. I looked away.

"There is another way," I said softly. He held his breath. "There is another way to kill you."

I got up not giving him a chance to say anything, went to the kitchen and picked up the water-filled bucket and the enamel scoop from the counter. I walked back to the murky living room and laid the bucket on the floor.

"But it's something you can't do yourself," I told to him, voice level. "You have to trust me to do it for you." He was a little taken aback by that.

"Alright," he said after a while, "What is it?"

I went to the back of the room and pushed a iron-laced travel trunk aside. I kneeled down to the floor, put my finger through a knothole in a floorboard and lifted it up. I reached under the floor with my hand and my fingers found the edge of an old wooden box. I was an other box in that blackness, similar to this one, but pushed all the way back, almost out of reach. I thought about the war hound and stuck to my plan. I pulled the box closer at hand out.

I sat down on my knees and placed the long box between us on the floor. The mahogany colored lacquer shined softly as a beam of light stole through the shutters. I opened the box and took out an elongated object bound in silk, laid that carefully next to the box, closed the box and moved it to my side. I gently unbound the silk to reveal a sword in a black lacquer scabbard. I stood up and drew the blade. Light reflected from the steel and danced on the walls. His eyes were fixed on the swords edge.

"This is Shiokaze," I said lovingly. It had been such a long time since I last felt the grained ray skin on my palm. I lowered the blade and his eyes followed, but he then turned to look at me.

"You're thinkin' about beheadin' me with that," he said.

"Aye." I looked at my sword.

"I don't think that anythin' can cut through my bones," he said eyes back at the sword. "You'd have to cut right between my vertebrae."

"That is not a problem."

"You have done this before?" he said half knowing the answer.

"Yes." I remembered an other forest, an other continent and an other man kneeling before me.

"You sure you can make the cut?"

"Positive." He held his breath again and exhaled deeply as he came to a decision.

"Alright. Do it."

I closed my eyes.

"I need you to kneel before me, eyes front. Don't bend your head all the way, just a little." I heard him move and when I opened my eyes he was ready, on his knees, in perfect position. I pushed the hair away from his neck and followed his spine with my fingers to find the right spot. I halted when I found it and ran my finger across the joint a few times to memorize the angle.

I straightened my back, went around to the bucket and took a scoop-full of water. I turned to face him. He hadn't moved, still looking down, still looking resolved. I took the position on his left side.

"You are certain about this?" I said.

"Yeah." I barely heard him answer.

I slowly poured the water on the blade, watched in silence as it ran down the steel and onto the floor, cleansing off all evil from the sword and the act. I laid the scoop down and readied myself, standing legs apart next to him.

His breath was shallow, maybe hesitant.

"I'm sorry," I said mostly to myself and I don't think he heard me anyway. I raised the sword, wrapped my fingers firmly around the hilt and I cut down in one fluent stroke, exhaling to the motion, aiming for that certain spot on his neck.

"No," he whispered in desperation just as the blade was about to cut into him and I didn't have the time to break the move. But Shiokaze has a mind of its own.

The sword froze in mid stroke cutting only through his skin, and I was paralyzed as I saw the blood running down his neck. He didn't move either, not for a moment, but then he fell forward breaking the fall at the last minute with his hands. He stayed there on all fours, shaking.

I took more water from the bucket, washed the blood from Shiokaze and laid it on the floor. I turned to the door. I had to get out.

* * *

He heard her close the door and walk briskly across the porch to sit down on the steps. Her smell lingered in the room along with the scent of his own hot blood that ran down his spine and around his neck, unseen under the shirt.

He slowly lowered himself to the floor to lie flat there, hands besides the shoulders, right cheek against the smooth boards. He felt how the blood on his back changed direction and began to trickle over his sides. He did wonder, briefly, why he was still bleeding.

The sword lay close to him and he watched its gleaming blade in the darkness. He thought how beautiful the weapon was, following the damask waves in the steel. He reached to touch it gently with his fingertips and it felt so smooth, so soothing. He knew that he shouldn't be touching the steel with his bare fingers. Knew that the oil from his hand could ruin the steel, but he didn't care.

He remained there, fingers resting on the cool steel.


	2. The Right

**2.  
**

I was lost deep in my thoughts when I heard him close the front door behind him. I turned to watch as he walked with a slight sway in his gait, as if drunk, across the porch. He sat carefully down on the steps and leaned his shoulder to the post.

He looked drawn. Blood was seeping through the back of his shirt, and I couldn't see how he had managed to get up from the floor, let alone walk out here. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wood.

I said nothing, just watched him in the sun.

He lifted his hand to gently touch the wound on his neck. He brought the hand back and opened his eyes to see the blood on his fingers. "I'm still bleeding," he said distantly. "I thought I shouldn't." He sniffed the fingers and then wiped them clean on his jeans.

"Might be that you don't have the energy to heal it," I said turning to him. "Pull your shirt off and let me have a look. I don't think you can afford to loose more blood than you already have." He didn't reply, but started to unbutton his shirt and slowly pulled his arms from the sleeves when he was done. Red streaks ran down his torso.

I moved to sit next to him and turned his back towards me. I placed my fingers on his neck and shoulders and delved in. It wasn't hard to change the flow to a new balance and I felt how the blood began to clot.

"It's not bleeding anymore," I said wiping my fingers with his shirt, "but it's not healed either, so take it easy. You need to eat before that can happen." I scrubbed the blood from his back with the shirt to the best I could. "Here," I said, "wipe your chest. I'll go and get you something to eat." He took the cloth and began to rub the blood off absentmindedly. I squeezed his shoulder as I got up and went in.

* * *

He woke up gasping for breath, escaping from drowning. _No_. Not water, not here. Just a dream. His heart pounded against the rib-cage and the muscles in his stomach had curled up tightly. He rubbed his chest vigorously with the heel of his hand and he lay back down to the pillow. Not a time to panic. Not now, not here. Just some half-forgotten dream. Nothing more. 

Had there been a time to panic?

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the smells of the house to calm himself down.

The stench of his own spilled blood was nauseating. He wished that he had washed himself, but he had been so tired after the meal, that he hadn't thought about it then. At least the cut wasn't bleeding anymore, but it wasn't completely gone either: he could feel a scar under his fingers. Funny thing though. He had thought that he wouldn't scar.

He smelled her in the room and turned to locate her sleeping in a NATO issue camp bed. She had staunched the bleeding, he remembered. It had felt odd, her fingers on his neck. And the strange feeling under his skin. A flow of kind, a current. Not electricity, but something else. He turned to his side.

He would have to decide what to do with her at some point. It would be so easy to kill her right now, to run her through in her sleep. She wouldn't hear him coming, wouldn't know what, who, hit her, wouldn't feel a thing. It would be so simple. He turned back to stare at the ceiling.

But there was the sword to consider. And the one thing she could do for him. Did he really want to die?

Did he? Really?

He discarded the thought quickly and run his fingers through his hair. _Maybe I should just get up and go and be done with it._ He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and held his breath. It had started to snow outside. He could smell it. He let the air go and turned his back to the room. Well, he wouldn't have to make that decision right now, not yet anyhow. So he let the matter rest. For now.

He listened her to heart beat, but lost his interest after awhile. The snow was beginning to build up and its scent was getting more and more pronounced. He liked that, the smell of snow.

* * *

I sat on the porch, in a chair, drinking my morning brew and taking my time enjoying the sight and sound of water dripping from the eaves. The ground, the roofs and the paddock fence were all cloaked in heavy, wet spring snow, but the sun was already working its way through it. I took a sip from my mug and leaned back closing my eyes to bask in the light myself. I smiled at the thought of winter and how the winter always makes you forget what the sun actually feels like on you. 

And it is the memory of summer, which sometimes makes these northern winters seems so cheerless and long.

I carefully opened my eyes and blinked for a few times before shading my eyes with my hand. The high slopes were still covered in bright white snow, but I knew it was melting fast: the brooks and rivers run high with melt waters. I felt like drifting for a moment as I gazed at the mountains and their dusty blue line appeared to be a little closer than before.

I do so love the high country. Almost as much as I love the woods.

The tea in my mug had turned cold and bitter. I leaned over and poured the remains of the liquid to the ground, drawing brown circles to the snow.

He woke up. She was gone, he could smell it. He lay on his side listening, but heard nothing of any consequence and sat up swinging his legs over the side.

Still nothing. No sign of her, except a forgotten tin mug on the table.

He felt better, not fine, but better. Stronger and more alert than in ages. His muscles were tense and he stretched his back and shoulders carefully. The muscles resisted and it annoyed him.

Where was she? She must have been gone for hours, since he smelled only her residency, but not her presence. He didn't think that she had escaped from him. Not as such. There were no signs of haste or panic. No things lying around. Except the mug. He got up and walked to the table. He sniffed the mug. She had drank tea this morning. You wouldn't drink tea if you were to make a run for it, now would you? So what was her game?

He was hungry. He went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until he found something agreeable to eat. He took the cold meat, the bread and the butter into the living room, sat down at the table and began to eat. The meat was good, some kind of game, but he couldn't guess what. He had eaten it before, years ago, but he couldn't remember what it was. It merely tasted familiar. Deer? Or moose? He buttered another slice of bead and cut a good hunk from the meat for topping.

He ate most of the meat and pushed the plate away when he was done. He looked around the room. He still had the keys to the gun locker in his pocket, he had checked that. He turned around in the chair. A bookcase covered a part of the back wall and an armchair and a trunk lay next to it. He went and pushed the trunk aside. There was a knot hole in one of the floorboards. He frowned, but pried the board up and revealed a hollow under the floor.

The darkness made him hesitate, thought he didn't understand why. He swore, put his hand in and felt his way around the cavity. It was larger than he had expected and he went around twice before he was convinced. The sword was gone. She had moved it. He put the board back and pushed the trunk on it.

He followed the distinct smell of gun oil and gunpowder through the kitchen and found the gun locker beside the back door, under the stairs. Inside it were a pair of shotguns and two rifles, but no ammunition. _Not bad._ He smiled. She wasn't stupid. He didn't look for the bullets; he had no need for them. He closed the locker and went upstairs.

It was an average attic. One open space under a slanting ceiling with an assortment of junk in it. He looked around, opening an odd box here and there, found nothing and went back to kitchen.

XXX

The clear, cool water ran over his hands, over the joints, knuckles, fingertips and the nails. He turned his hands over under the tap and watched as the water pooled in his palms and ran over the sides and through his fingers. He lifted his hands and closed his eyes as the water ran over his wrists, down the arms, circling his elbows before pouring into the sink.

He took a step backwards, bent down and adjusted his head under the high, long-necked tap and watered his hair thoroughly, taking pleasure in the sensation. He leaned further and the water ran on his neck, over his throat and along his jaw to trickle off from the ends of his long sideburns.

He pulled himself up abruptly and tilted his head. He turned the water off and listened, eyes narrow. He heard a horse walking, stopping and then someone dismounting as the horse snorted contently. He walked softly across the living room and saw her through the window, at the end of the yard.

So, she was back. He wandered what that meant. He couldn't see or hear anyone else, but that didn't mean that there wasn't someone coming along later on. He opened the door and stepped out.

He watched her unbuckle the girths and unsaddle the white-faced sorrel horse. The horse looked at him, turned its ears at him and snickered softly with a low voice. She turned, saw him and smiled.

"Hi there!" She turned back to the horse. "Did you sleep well?" He walked closer. The horse sniffed him, pushed its muzzle against his collarbone, snorted again and turned its head away, but kept an eye at him. She stroked its shoulders and chest. "Ach, give it a rest, will you." She took off the bridle and opened the paddock gate. The horse gave him a sidelong glance, walked through the gate and started to graze seemingly oblivious to their presence. He turned his attention back to her.

"Where have you been?" She raised an eyebrow at the tone of his voice, but then smiled at him.

"Working." She took off her gloves and tucked them under the belt of her long chaps. "I needed to check out few fords and riverside tracks after the spate four nights ago. Wasn't too bad though, but it took some time to see it all.

"So, did you sleep well?" She looked into his eyes, but he wasn't convinced. He took a step closer.

"Don't give me that crap. Who did you meet?"

She frowned appearing confused.

"No-one. There aren't that many people around this early on the spring," she said and gave him that reassuring smile. "I'm starved." She turned her back to him as she headed towards the house. He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around forcefully. She nearly fell, but he held her up by her jacket. She looked surprised.

"I ain't done with you yet," he growled, "I know you went to tell someone about me." He pulled her closer. "So tell me. Who was it?" She frowned again in puzzlement. He didn't like that. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She ought to be afraid of him. Scared. But he didn't smell fear on her.

"Listen. I met no-one," she said ignoring his hold, "Why would I -" He cut her off shoving her away from him. She stumbled, but did not fall. She turned slowly around to face him. He was frustrated, he still couldn't smell any fear on her. He wanted her to be afraid of him. She was supposed to be afraid of him.

She held her hands up, palms open toward him. "Look. I told no-one. I met no-one. I wouldn't -" He howled in rage and charged her, pushed her over and pinned her to the ground.

"Bullshit," he breathed through his teeth. Something flashed in her eyes. He grinned and leaned over to smell her neck. He growled. Still no fear. He pushed his right hand against her breastplate. Hard. "Don't fuck with me, darlin'. Tell me, who did you meet?"

She met his gaze. "I met no-one." He swung his hand to slap her across her face. She moved and was suddenly free, pushing away from him, pushing him off balance. He slashed at her, going for her side and legs, but she stepped aside ducking behind him. He growled, sneered at her, spun around kicking, aiming for her shoulder. She duck the kick, stepping in, making the follow-up difficult. He took the opportunity and forced her to the ground with his sheer weight. He sat on her stomach, legs astride and pinned her arms to her sides with his thighs. He leaned down, hands on her shoulders.

"Don't do that again." She said nothing. "Just tell me, who did you meet?"

She smiled softly with clear eyes. "I didn't meet anyone."

It made him furious, shaking. "Don't lie to me," he whispered. He was loosing it, he knew the signs. "Don't make me do things. Just tell me. Who did you meet?" His breath was getting heavier. "Just tell me. You will tell me anyway, after I'm done with you. So, just tell me. Now." He was loosing it. Why wouldn't she be afraid of him?

"It's the truth. I met no-one." The shaking was gone, replaced with calm rage.

He slowly wrapped his left hand around her throat, just below the jaw, and stroked her cheek with his thumb.

"Remember the blood? Remember what I told you about the blood?" He felt her breathing change. He smiled. "You remember it, don't you? So tell me. Who did you meet?"

"No-one. I met -" He hit her with his right hand, hard, holding her still by the jaw, but she shifted and pushed him off.

He growled, cursing, and followed her. She didn't try to escape but faced him, ready to take him on.

He tried to knock her down, sweep her legs under her, but she avoided his blows and kicks. Not by staying clear, but by staying close to him. Too close for the blows to be efficient. Too close for even to try kicking. She was always there, but always out of reach. So he waited for a mistake. Kept her moving, getting high on the combat and the rage.

Then it came, an opening, and he took her down once more.

"Just tell me! Just tell me who you met!" He was shouting, growling, sitting on her as before. She struggled to breath and looked straight into him.

"No-one. I -" He let the right hand claws out and drew them into her flank. He was breathing hard, panting from the adrenaline. He didn't smell fear on her, but he smelled her blood and he smiled, satisfied.

She shuddered under him, eyes open and looking at him. She inhaled laboriously and exhaled as blood run from the side of her mouth. Inhaled. He felt her body loose its natural tension under him, felt a change in her heartbeat under his groin. She exhaled, became still and then the pulse was gone too. Through all that she was looking at him.

He pulled his claws free; they had cut straight through her into the ground. He shook his hand to rid the claws of the most of the blood. He left them extended.

He sat there on his knees over her for a moment. He hadn't planned for this, but there it was. His body had made the decision for him, once again. He just had to go on from that result.

He wiped the blood from her face with his clean hand and got up. He needed to think. There was a bottle of whisky in the cupboard he remembered.

He sat on the steps, the bottle of whisky at his feet and a generous measure of it in his glass. He had washed the blood from his hands and claws in the kitchen. The bottle had been where he had remembered seeing it. He had picked it and a glass along it up and had headed for the porch. He had noticed a woollen jersey on a chair in the living room and had taken that along too.

It wasn't like any whisky he had tasted before. It had a green bottle with a plain label and a weird scottish name, which he didn't even bother to read out loud. Even the e from whisky was missing. It tasted of smoke, pine tar and peat, and he detected a hint of iodine somewhere in it too. Strange stuff, but he decided that it wasn't too bad and he poured another one.

The worn-out shirt actually fit him. He assumed that she had left it specially for him this morning to replace his ruined one. He appreciated the gesture. The weather wasn't that warm yet.

He glanced at her body, which still lay on the yard where he had killed her. He took a sip from the glass, then drained it and poured yet an other measure.

He was disappointed with himself. How careless can you get? He was reasonably sure, as an afterthought, that she hadn't told anyone about him. Nobody had showed up so far and he assumed that nobody would. It didn't make any tactical sense to send her so far ahead the main force; there wasn't much to be gained by that. Unless they hadn't expected him and her to fight. Maybe they had planned to wait for the night, to let her assure him that there was nothing going on and then capture him. The thought made him edgy. He picked up the bottle and moved into the shadow beside the wall. To be out of plain sight.

"You think too much," he told himself aloud. No-one with any competence would bother with a plan like that. Too wide a time frame. Too many variables to consider. Too complicated and therefore not worth the risk since you could reach the same goal through other means. He was being paranoid, he knew that.

She hadn't told anyone and that was that.

He finished the third one and realized that he was beginning to discover the complexity of the malt. He filled the glass and made a point of pealing off the layers of the whisky's savour. Apparently not being able to get drunk had its benefits after all.

XXX

The roof's shadow cut her half at the waist. Her right leg was bent, fallen to the side, ankle under the left knee. A crow landed some feet away from the body. It groomed the feathers under its wing, then hobbled closer and jumped to sit on her chest. He stood up and stepped down from the porch to pick up a pebble from the ground. The bird glanced at him, adjusted the quills of its left wing and cleaned its beak against her shirt.

"Hoy!" He threw the pebble at the crow. He didn't want to hit her and the stone came short missing the bird. The crow looked at him, blinked and ignored him. It walked closer to her face and came to a stand on her collar. He picked up another pebble and began to walk closer. The crow looked into her open eye, tilting its head to the side. He broke into a run, yelling. The bird turned its attention to him, called annoyingly and took off. He threw the pebble after it.

Her eyes were staring at him when he came closer. He crouched down and closed them. She was still warm.

He kneeled down on one knee and took a hold of her right arm just above the elbow. He pulled the body up into a sitting position and placed her arm behind his neck pulling until most of her weight was on his shoulder. She was heavier than he had expected. He put his right hand between her thighs and pushed himself up. He turned around looking for a place to hide her from sight. The smell of dried hay lead him to the barn.

There was a stock of hay bales at the end of the barn and he laid her on top them. The dried hay had a sweet scent to it, but it wasn't enough to cover the smell of her blood. The rats would find her soon enough, he didn't doubt that, but at least he didn't have to watch them eat. He shut the door on his way out, sealing off the darkness where she lay.

He stopped to cover the blood soaked spot on the yard, kicking dark, moist gravel on top of it. The tracks would be indistinct in the night and the ground's moisture would obscure them even further by morning. He returned to the house and picked up the whisky as he went in.

XXX

He had fallen asleep in the armchair. The fire was still burning in the open fireplace, hissing quietly. He had heard something. He didn't change his position, but remained there, muscles relaxed and eyes closed. Listening, waiting.

Someone stepped on the porch, casually but hesitantly. Not hiding and yet careful. He followed the footsteps across the decking to the door, heard the hand on the door handle, how it was pressed down and the door opened. He prepared himself, heart beating, ready to fight.

Then the scent reached his nose. He opened his eyes in surprise and scrambled to his feet. The claws came out, on instinct, as he turned to the door.

"You!" She was there, standing, alive, leaning her hand against the door frame. "I killed you!"

She smiled. "Do I look dead to you? You of all people should know better." She took a step towards him. He raised his hand at her, threatening her with his claws. His hand was shaking.

"Don't - Hold it right there!" She stood still, looking at him and holding to the frame. He sniffed the air, crouched as he caught a whiff of blood in it. "Don't move a fuckin' muscle." His heartbeat was heavy and he felt odd, distracted. She frowned.

"You didn't kill me." He shook his head. "No you didn't. Your claws missed my heart, not by much, but they missed." Her voice was soft, low. She lifted the hem of her jacket and shirt. "Look, you're not an unused soldier, you've seen your share of wounds." She gasped as she held the cloths higher to reveal three puncture wounds. "Look at the angle. See, a bit more to the left and you would have killed me."

He walked slowly closer keeping his eyes locked to hers, not looking at the wounds. He came to a stand in front of her and held the claws of his left hand to her throat. He pulled her hand away from the clothes and pushed it aside. She held the hand high, at the hight of her head, palm outward.

"I won't move," she said. His eyes narrowed and he pressed the claws a little closer. Still no fear, but he wasn't expecting any, not anymore. "Just look."

He lifted the hem himself. She was right, the angle had been wrong. He wasn't sure whether to curse or not. And the wounds were partly healed, though red and swollen. He touched one of them with his finger. She twitched and he stepped away from her.

"But you died. I watched you die. Your heart stopped and you died." There was menace in his voice.

Suddenly she looked sad. "Aye, I died." His breathing was heavy and he scowled. She ran her hand across her face. "Listen. This is complicated and I'm still weak. Wouldn't you let me sit down? Please? And I'll explain it all to you."

"Or maybe I should just kill you proper."

She laughed. "Aye, you could always do that instead." She turned serious. "What makes you think that the outcome would be any different this time?"

"I don't do the same mistake twice."

She squinted thoughtfully at him. "No, you're right. You wouldn't." She stretched her back and grimaced. "So how about it? You can take me down any time you like, but it would be much easier for both of us if I sat down."

He laughed grimly and waved her towards the sofa. She sunk into it, head bent back against the leather. He looked at her exposed throat and the beast in him licked its muzzle. She raised her head up.

"Aye, I did die. Your right about that too."

"So I did kill you," he said smirking.

"No, you didn't. I killed myself."

He took a furious step towards her, claws raised. "I told you already. Don't fuck with me, darlin'."

"Alright, maybe killing myself is a bit strong way to put it." She thought about it for a while. "Ever heard of suspended animation, have you?"

He snorted. "Yeah, in science fiction movies."

She laughed. "I know, sounds daft, but it might be the best way to describe it." He drew the claws in, pulled a chair and sat down in front of her.

"I died to survive," she said after a brief silence.

"Come again?"

"I realized that you weren't about to believe me and I couldn't fight you. So I chose an alternative strategy. I died, stepped out of my body."

He stood up. "Fuck you. When you die you're gone for good." He took a step closer. "And you don't seem dead to me."

"I said I stepped out of my body."

He frowned grinding his teeth.

"I needed you to believe that I had died so you wouldn't actually kill me. And I left my body, stepped out of it and left it in suspended animation." She rolled her eyes. "Now it sounds daft even to me."

He lifted his chin up. "But I stabbed you and it was just my bad luck that I didn't kill you."

"It was?" She leaned her head forward. "Maybe. Who knows? The fact is that your claws missed my heart and we're back where we started from."

"So who did you meet?"

"I met no-one. I didn't tell anyone about you and I wasn't about to." She looked into his eyes. "And I'm not going to."

"Yeah, right."

"You would've killed me the moment you saw me at the door if you had thought that I lied to you."

"You think so?"

She didn't reply.

"So you can read minds too? Along with this resurrection bullshit." He waved his hands in vague circles between them.

"How are you feeling?"

"What?"

"Your side and legs. How are they?"

She waited for a while gazing at him and then rested her head on the back of the couch.

* * *

She was sleeping again. She had woken up a few hours ago, had heated a can of beans and had eaten them with some bread. She had stayed up for some time, had talked with him about trivial, everyday things and he had listened, but hadn't said anything. (So in essence she had ended up talking to him, not with him.) Eventually she had gone back to bed, the same one he had slept in the night before and she had fallen to sleep almost the moment she had closed her eyes. He knew, he had listened to her heartbeat.

He couldn't sleep. There was a strange restlessness in his body. An uneasiness that wouldn't go away, but held on, itching, twisting in the mind. Keeping him awake though he was tired to the bone.

It was a familiar feeling. An unexpected combination of anticipation, worrying and eagerness. An old acquaintance whom he knew he knew, but couldn't remember meeting.

He got up from the armchair in front of the fire and walked to her bedside. She was fast asleep, dreaming. Her eyes moved behind the closed eyelids. Her hair was cut in a short, wild style, ends uneven and thick. He wondered wether it would be heavy to wear it long.

(He wanted to lift the blanket. He wanted to see the wounds on her flesh. He wanted to see if they had healed and so to verify what he already suspected.)

He hadn't spoken to her after she had asked how he felt, not a word after that. Somehow she had caught him off guard and had claimed the ground and she held it even now, in her sleep. He didn't like that, the feeling of being the underdog, but he had yet to figure out how to win this battle. To really win, in his terms.

He lifted the blanket carefully and folded it gently back over her legs. She didn't stir, her heartbeat didn't change, but he waited anyway before beginning to roll her shirt up.

The scars where still there, red and fresh. Healed enough so they wouldn't bleed - but barely more than that. He inhaled deeply, tasted the air in his nose. He remembered the smell of her blood when he had buried his claws into her. It made him snarl.

He touched the scars with three fingers matching one over each of the puncture marks. It was so easy to kill, to slaughter, especially for him, armed with his adamantium claws. So easy, almost effortless at times, that it made him doubt his own sanity afterwards. _It aint supposed to feel like that_, he thought and laid his palm over the wounds. He let the claws partly out. The blades cut the skin between the knuckles drawing some blood and he studied the reflections on their surface.

_I know it ain't supposed to be like this, _he thought, _No sane man ought to feel the things I feel when I smell blood._ He drew the blades in and it hurt like it always did. Even more than it hurt to push them out.

_Maybe I ain't sane no more._

_Was I ever?_

Her skin felt warm and soft under his hand and he stroke her gently with his thumb. She changed her position, breathing slightly lighter and he quickly pulled his had away. He waited until her breathing was slow and deep enough again and he began to roll her shirt back down.

There were other scars on her. Old ones, well healed and almost gone. He stared at them for a moment analysing the cuts, the punctures and the tears. He knew the movements behind those marks, recognized the weapons and their aims. And he knew he had been wrong. She wasn't like him. Not like him after all.

_Am I disappointed?_


	3. The News

**3. The News**

Lou had this gold-coloured spring bell, which chimed with a sweet ching every time the front door was opened. Come to think of it, I'm sure he still has it. Lou is not a person to change things for mere change's sake. It took a year of persuasion and a threat from the pertinent insurance company to make him buy a new cash register. And even then the new machine was hidden behind the counter while the revered NCR with a brass box was left on top.

Adds to the ambiance of the place he claimed.

The White River Trading Company was founded on ambiance. There is no White River to be found in those parts of the province, but that was not an excuse when Lou bought the business and replaced the old "supplies" sign with a new one.

Folks did ask about the White River.

"It's good for the business," Lou had answered sounding proud of his enterprise. "Makes the tourists think about snow and winter," and it admittedly did. More people began to stop by on their holiday travels and Lou's little general shop expanded into a proper store with locally produced food and crafts. The obligatory maple leaf and beaver kitsch got its own section.

Despite all the cunning plans to draw more tourists in, the store kept its friendly, laid-back country atmosphere, though I suspect that too was a part of the well built plan for increased ambiance. Nevertheless it still was a general store with proper groceries and such. A combined grocer's, baker's, butcher's, ironmonger's, petrol station, clothier with mixed plants and things during the late spring and summer.

And it was the only store in the village, so there you go.

Lou noted me with a smiling nod when I came in. He was serving an out of town couple, introducing them to a selection of Granny Mary's homemade jams and pickles. I picked up two baskets and went for the groceries. Lou caught up with me when I was about to add the sixth bottle of beer into my basket.

"I thought you didn't drink beer, Grace."

"A correction, if you may," I said turning to meet him, "I don't drink North American beer."

"Ah, I forgot," Lou said and tapped his nose with his forefinger. "Only British. So a guest then?"

"Aye. A small army of snails is camping in my garden." I put the last bottle into my basket. "The wee buggers ate my lettuces and pestered my strawberries all summer last year but this time, " I winked my eye, "this time I'm prepared."

"I suppose it's a sweet way to go."

"They sure seem to appreciate it." We both laughed and Lou whipped off to the counter where a local customer waited with her shopping. I continued toward the meats.

**x x x x x**

I laid my two baskets on the counter. Lou was watching the news from a wee telly he had on a high shelve in the corner. Tom Hughes was leaning against the counter, eyes glued to the screen. I placed my palms on the edge on the counter, lifted my right heel to rest my leg and leaned on my hands. A red-haired reporter was talking in front of a dull gray concrete complex, eyes and voice serious.

"... and as the final appeal was dismissed by the Supreme Court the research center will now be closed down later this week. The center has been inactive since last summer when the provincial government issued an investigation after serious allegations concerning unnecessary testing and generally brutal treatment of the center's laboratory animals came into public. At first the management..."

"It's about goddamn time." Tom pushed his hat back with his fingers. He looked at me and nodded towards the reporter. "But I guess it's better late than never, right Grace?"

I nodded. "Is that that Alkali Lake institute they're talking about?"

"Yeah," said Tom and looked back at the telly. They where showing the old, grained images about the animals and some of the tests which they had been showing regularly for the last year. Lou shook his head.

"It's unbelievable, unbelievable. I'm not against testing medicines and such on animals, but that stuff is just sick."

We watched the black and white images in silence. The reporter returned into the view.

"Last week the government's spokesman announced that evidence of even more sadistic experiments have been found. No details of these experiments have been released, but our sources within the government confirm the findings. Earlier to day the police announced that they are investigating the rumours of experimentation on humans, but that so far..."

"Goddamn it!" Tom slammed his hand against the counter top. "If those goddamn bastards have -. Hell!"

"It's just rumours," I said. "You know how it is with media."

Lou leaned his elbow against the counter. "Let's hope you're right."

"At least they're closing it down," Tom said and straightened his back. "Even if it were just animals they were torturing it's still bad enough. But I'll be damned if we see those scientists in court. I bet they'll just hush this up."

"I don't see how they can," I said. "It's been all over the news for months now. Everybody knows."

"But the officials were embarrassed by it. It was a governmental project, so they paid for it and all and they knew about it all the time, mark my words. I'll bet my ass on it." Tom waved his index finger at us. "Just wait and see."

"I just can't wrap my head around it," said Lou and scratched his brow. "What the hell did they think they were doing? Just look at that," he pointed at the telly where a white coated lab technician tied an ape to a table and injected it with something. The animal trashed against the restrains, but the sedative in its veins began to have an effect on it and it slowly relaxed. The technician shaved its arm, picked up a scalpel and cut its arm open. The ape was still conscious: its eyes were open. The voice on the reporter was explaining something but none of us heard what he was saying.

"Now there's a pretty picture for the daytime TV," Tom said looking pale under his tan.

I didn't feel like saying anything but I said it anyway: "That makes no sense to me."

"What?"

"The poor bugger's still awake and he's just cutting it. See, he's not doing anything specific. He's just opening the arm up, layer by layer."

"Well thank you very much for pointing that out, Grace." The image changed and Lou took a good swallow from an old, cold coffee. He grimaced and spit it back into the mug.

Tom seemed to be cultivating an interest in the matter.

"Maybe there's a reason why the monkey is awake."

"You got a point there, Tom," I said. "They might be brutal, but they ain't stupid. They wouldn't waste money like this, not this scale. They're on to something alright."

"We don't have all the relevant information here," Lou pointed out. "They're not showing us everything."

"No they're not, but they're showing us something."

"Aye and there's something in it."

The news moved on to the next subject. Lou began to sort out my shopping. Tom was lost in his thoughts and I kept on watching the telly. The newsman was going through the provincial topics.

A familiar face showed up in the background.

"The Alberta Royal Mounted Police has issued a Canada-wide warrant for the arrest of the man seen here in the background. He is wanted by the police for the violent rape of a 20 year old student and the murders of two police officers nearly two moths ago near Fox Creek."

"Aw, shite!"

"What?"

"Nothing. I just remembered something."

They zoomed into the picture of a man with black, short-cut hair and a dark jaw-line. It was him, I knew the look in his eyes.

"The police has not named the culprit as there is some mixed information on his identity and would ask for the public's assistance in identifying and apprehending the suspect. The police reminds that the wanted person is extremely dangerous and that under no circumstances should he be approached, though I'm certain that those of us who remember the crimes in question here don't need to be reminded of his violence. The police contact numbers can be seen at the bottom of the screen."

**x x x x x**

I stopped at the library on my way back home. It took me a while to find the relevant articles from old newspapers, but I did and I took photocopies of them.

I parked my pick-up on a wee side-road several miles from home and read the articles thoroughly. The suspect had picked up the sweet-looking blond student from a bar in Fox Creek, had driven some ten miles away from town and had raped her under a willow tree by the river.

But not before beating the shit out of her. Not before cutting her face and thighs. And according to a tabloid he had used an undescribed tool on her before actually raping her.

She had barely survived and had been in coma for a week. As far as could tell from the old articles she was still hospitalized.

Had it really been him? They didn't give any description of the assailant in the papers. I moved on to the murders.

The two police men had been investigating the rape when they had been killed. A trucker had found them and their car on a lay-by. The older of the two had been lying on the ground next to the car with his chest ripped open. The younger one had been found in the woods near by stabbed, six times.

That might well have been him. Six times. Two times three. I brushed my hand against my side just below the ribcage. Those wounds didn't hurt anymore.

I collected the papers into a pile on my lap and looked out through the side window. It started to rain. The raindrops ran down the glass and I watched as the wee rivers joined together, parted company and joined again drawing an ever changing web against the dusk.

Despite all the news I wasn't convinced. I laughed silently. He was a killer. I of all people had no reason to doubt that - even if he hadn't stabbed me.

I turned the key in the ignition to get the wipers going.

But I wasn't entirely sure what to do. All I had was a dream and a gut feeling. And an obligation: he had asked me to kill him.

I twisted the key further and the hum of the engine joined the drumming of the rain. Maybe I should have chosen the other sword. Then he would have been dead.

I needed to play this one by the ear. I switched the headlights on, turned the car around and returned to the road back home.

**x x x x x**

He was standing at the door, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, when I drove into the yard. I waved my hand and he nodded his head slightly to return the greeting, but then suddenly flinched pulling his hands abruptly free from his pockets and disappeared into the house. I parked the pick-up, collected the groceries from the back of the car and went in after him.

"Got you something," I said as I laid the cardboard box on the dining table. "Here, catch." I cast the bundle of clothes to him. "Hope they fit." I took the box to the kitchen.

He was standing by the table when I came back. He was bare-chested, one hand holding the T-shirt and the other on the table where he had spread the copies of the articles, reading. I went over, put the tray down on the table across from him, sat down and began to eat my portion of the soup. He kept reading for a while, shuffling through the papers, halting occasionally to read something more thoroughly. He pushed the papers into a makeshift pile, put the T-shirt on and sat down. He shredded some of the bread into wee pieces with his fingers and mixed them into his soup.

The soup tasted better than I had expected. A night in the cellar had worked wonders and I got myself a second bowl-full. He followed suit and did his thing with with the bread again.

"Eat the rest if you want to," I said when I was done.

"What?"

"The soup. You can have what's left of it." I got up and collected my bowl and cutlery. "There isn't that much left."

He ate a spoon full and leaned back. "Yeah, sure. I guess I could."

I left the bowl in the sink, took my coat and went out to check on the horses.

**x x x x x**

He was sitting by the fire when she came back in. She hung her coat and went to the kitchen. He heard her open a cabinet twice, then the fridge and a familiar sound of a bottle being opened. She came back carrying a shot of whisky in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.

"You strike me as a beer drinking man," she said. He accepted the bottle and she put her glass down on the mantel. She moved the second armchair closer to the fireplace, took the glass and sat down next to him.

He drank from the bottle, let the beer linger in his mouth before swallowing it and grunted contently. She smiled at him.

"Good, eh?"

He mumbled an affirmative. She took a sip from her glass.

"Did you know that you're wanted for that rape and the murders by the mounties?" she said without a warning. The bottle froze halfway to his lips. He gave a quick sideways glance at her, but she was looking at the fire sitting comfortably in her chair, legs stretched towards the flames. He finished the bottle before saying anything.

"I wondered about those newspaper scraps you left there," he said laying the empty bottle on the floor besides the armchair.

"I got them from the library," she said and drank what was left of her whisky. "They showed your face in the telly while I was at Lou's and I wanted to refresh my memory."

He leaned his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his hands.

"So now you know me for what I am," he said with an edge of scorn in his voice. He ran his fingers through his hair.

"I know very little about you," she said softly. He got up and walked to the the fireplace.

"You know nothin'," he said, "nothin' at all."

She didn't reply; he clenched his hands.

"How long do I have?"

"How long to what?"

"Before they're here."

"Who?" She stood up and came closer, but stopped just out of his reach.

"I don' t know, now do I?" He turned to face her. "But it won't be the mounties, that's for sure."

"No-one knows that you are here."

"Somebody knows, darlin', somebody always knows."

"Alright, I do, but I haven't told anyone."

He took a step closer looming over her. "They know. They always know."

"Don't be paranoid."

He forced her back by coming closer, underlining his words with his finger at her face.

"I'm not bein' paranoid. You know nothin' so assume nothin'."

"Who would be after you if it's not the mounties?"

"You wanna know who?" He shoved her backwards across the room. She hit the couch and stumbled. He followed her and closed the distance between them with a few angry steps. "You really want to know?"

She stood up. "Who?"

He let the claws in his hands out.

"They do," he said raising his hands at her. He scowled, furious. "The bastards who gave me these, who made me what I am." His hands trembled.

She looked at the claws. "I see."

"No you don't!" he yelled cutting the air as he slashed his arms open. "You don't know shit about me!"

"I didn't -." She lifted her hands defensibly and stepped away from him. He followed.

"You know what," he said, his voice low. "Maybe I am a fuckin' rapist." He grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her down straddling her under him. "Maybe I am. Who knows? I sure as hell don't!"

"I don't think -."

"Shut up!" He took ahold of her hair and pulled her head back revealing her throat. "You keep your mouth shut or I will rip your tongue out!" She felt warm under him and the mixed scent of whisky and horses and moist earth filled his lungs. There was a strange familiarity to it.

She said nothing, but glared at him.

"You should me afraid of me," he growled. He moved backwards to sit on her hips, never letting go of her hair. He pulled her shirts free from her trousers and slid his right hand claws under the shirts cutting them in half. "You should have called the mounties. You should have stayed in town." He retracted his claws to unbuckle his belt and began to unbutton his jeans. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

"Listen to me. You're -."

He jerked his hand free and let claws out with a sharp snikt.

"I told you to shut up!" He pulled his hand back to threaten her with her claws. "So shut the fuck up!" He yanked her head by the hair. "You know nothin', nothin' at all. So shut the fuck up!"

The look in her eyes turned cold. "If you want to kill me then kill me. Run me through and be done with it," she said, voice filled with cold anger.

He let go of her hair and sat up straight. He lifted his left hand up to let her see his claws. He snarled at her as he remembered the scent of her blood and how it had felt when his claws had cut into her. And he remembered the heart beat under his groin.

"This time I won't miss," he promised.

"I should hope so."

His eyes narrowed. He launched himself at her, screamed at the top of his lungs with anger, frustration and bloodlust. He rammed his hands against the floor, one at each side of her head, pushing the claws all the way down until his knuckles hit the floorboards. He screamed, howled at her face until as his whole body shuddered as he forced the air from his lungs, pressing his hands against the wood.

He ran out of air and he panted while crouching over her, his eyes locked with hers.

Suddenly he jerked his head back breaking the eye contact, leaped up and bolted out forcing the door open with his shoulder.

She closed her eyes and lay on the floor for a long while. Eventually she got up slowly, brushed imaginary dust off her clothes and studied her slit shirts with a quiet sigh. She turned towards the frontdoor, considered something looking thoughtfully after him before going out herself.

**x x x x x**

He was standing in the thin moonlight, supporting himself against the porch rail with both of his hands; the claws were gone. She went to stand at his side, looking at the moon and the distant mountains pale and eerie in their snowy glow.

"You are not afraid of me," he said after a lengthy silence. "Why?"

"How can you tell?"

"I don't smell fear on you."

She smiled. "Fair enough."

He lifted his eyes from the ground to stare in the distance.

"So how come?"

"To fear you I should first fear death."

"Death is easy, you know. There are more horrible things that I could do to you than just kill you."

"Aye, there are. There's no denying that, but the thing is," she said, "that when faced with pain and torture people want to survive, to not to die." She was lost in a distant memory for a moment. "The wish for death comes later. Much later."

"And then you're not afraid anymore."

"No, you're not."

The mutual silence lasted until she shivered from the cold. He glanced at her shyly, bent his head and turned to her. He touched hesitantly her shirts where his claws had cut them open.

"I'm - I didn't mean to -."

She looked at his hand.

"Don't worry about it," she said. He could see the scarred skin of her abdomen through the slit. He turned away to look at the mountains again.

"Can I ask you something," she said facing him.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"What did you mean when you said that you didn't know wether you raped her or not?"

He moved uncomfortably and crossed his arms. "I meant what I said. I don't know."

She waited patiently. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. She turned back to the mountains taking pressure off of him, and he buried his face in his hands and leaned his elbows on the rail.

"I honestly don't know." He let his head sink between his shoulders. "I don't remember rapin' her. I don't remember not rapin' her. I think I remember killin' those cops but I'm not sure." He sunk to his knees, hands still on the rail. "If they say I did it, then I must have, right? 'Cause I don't remember. I don't remember anythin'."

She squatted down.

"What do you remember?" she said with a voice barely more that a whisper.

He sighed and sat down drawing his hands down to his lap.

"Not much," he said with resignation. "I remember wakin' up in a forest, naked, blood smeared all over me and with these," he let the claws out, "stickin' out from my hands. I don't remember how I got them. I don't remember how I got there. I don't remember who I am or who I was before these." He shook his clawed hands angrily as though disgusted by their presence.

"I remember waking up, disoriented and cold and hungry. My body ached and I was frightened, scared, but furiously mad at the same time too. I wanted to get rid of these, but they didn't come off, not even when I tried to cut them from my hands." He drew the blades in. "That's when I found out that I heal fast. Almost as fast as I cut myself.

"It took me awhile to figure out how to draw them in and it hurts." He rubbed his knuckles. "It hurts so much. Even more than it hurts to release them." He laughed morbidly. "Those fuckin' sons of bitches knew their trade."

He was quiet for awhile and she waited in the darkness.

"I washed myself with snow. I knew I had escaped from somewhere, that they were, are, after me, but I had no idea who they were." He sneered slightly. "But I have their scent now." He closed his eyes.

"I hunted down an elk. I killed it, skinned it, ate its meat raw and wrapped its bloody skin around me for warmth. It too me days to find a house, to steal some clothes that actually fit, and a car and some money." He sighed and ran his hand across his face.

"They almost caught me twice before I got their scent and after that I've been able to smell them in time." He opened his eyes and stared into the night.

"The first eight months are blurry, a real mess. I don't remember much about them, just some moments, feelings and images. A few days at the best. Nothin' solid." He sighed again.

"But the thing is that I still have these - blackouts that I don't remember. Sometimes nothin' at all, sometimes I remember some of it," he said hoarsely. "So I don't know if I raped her. You have seen what I am, how I sometimes get. You know me for what I am." He turned his head down. "So I guess I must have done it. Look what I almost did to you and I wasn't even completely gone then. So if they say that I did it, then I must have." He closed his right hand and the claws slid out.

"I tried to kill myself, I did, but I couldn't. I can't die even if I deserve to. I tried but I can't." He drove the blades through his left wrist. He left them there, watching the dark blood before pulling them out and back in. The wounds healed and he shuddered.

She watched him in silence.

**x x x x x**

I touched him gently on his shoulder, but he shied under my hand.

"I don't think you raped her."

He snapped his head up to look at me in disbelief.

"That rape was deliberate, planned in advance. Think about it." He frowned at the thought. "Who ever did it, cut her up and used a tool before actually doing it himself."

He turned fully towards me.

"You, instead, seem to act violently when aggravated by someone or something. You would have done it in the heat of the moment, but not in cold blood."

"But you think I could have done somethin' like it?" he said quietly, pain colouring his voice.

"No," I said and lifted my hand to hold his shoulder. He didn't try to avoid the contact this time. "I don't think that it's in your nature to rape."

He snatched my hand by the wrist before I had the chance to draw it back. He pulled me to him surprising me with a desperate hug, embracing me with his hands, face buried in my hair; shivering, swinging us slightly as he clung to me.

I hugged him back, smoothing his hair with my hand. I delved briefly in to check upon the wound, but it was completely healed; he had recovered his lost strength. The taste of steel filled my mouth and I moved away from it, keeping my distance.

He pulled away, faltered and left his hands on my knees. He turned his head towards the open door and the light from the living room fell on his face. He had the auburn eyes of the old hound and the same look in them. His eyes moved across the floor and he twitched, yanked his hands back to himself and glanced at me shyly as he turned his head towards the darkness.

"What's that?" I said and touched a chain around his neck. He pulled a lonesome dog tag from under his T-shirt.

"I don't know. I had it when I woke up."

He let me touch it and I turned it so I could read it in the light.

"Wolverine. Is that your name?"

He smiled half smirking. "No, darlin', it ain't." He slipped the metal plate back under his shirt. "Now that would be plain stupid.

"I'm Logan."

"You're sure? 'Cause with that memory of yours -," I said pretending a mocking concern.

"I don't remember much, but give me some credit here," he claimed lifting an eyebrow.

"So is it the first or the last name?"

"I don't care. Do you?"

"Fair enough. It's good to meet you, Logan." I got up and offered my hand to him. "I'm Grace."

He took my hand and pulled himself up.

"Good to meet you too, Grainne."

**xxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Author's Notes: I had this written about two months ago, but I've been too busy with my work lately. Actually I have all the chapters (3 more to go) for the first part of "All Partial Evil" ready. It only needs to be "betaed".


	4. The Call

**4. The Call**

"Yeah?"

"Nick, it's me."

"Oh hi, Grace. How you doin'?"

"He called me Grainne."

"Who did?"

"He did. He called me Grainne."

"You sure?"

"Hell yeah."

"Strange. How could he know? You know, maybe he just made a mistake. A Freudian slip or what ever."

"Nick, it's quite a long leap from Grace to Grainne."

"Yeah, true. He's not one of us, we know that for sure."

"Aye, he's a mutant, so it couldn't be that."

"And you're sure you haven't met him before?"

"Positive. Though -."

"But what?"

"I don't know. Something I can't place my finger at."

"Figure it out. You know what's at stake here."

"I will. Don't worry about it."

"Do I ever?"

"Ha-ha."

"Keep the sword at hand, will you. Just in case. I'll look into it, but we might have to get rid of him, you never know."

"Nick, I can't do that."

"Aw, come on, Grace. Don't go and grow a conscience now."

"Hey, it's me you're talking about. It's not that."

"What then?"

"He asked me to kill him."

"Shit, shit, shit. - Did you try to?"

"Aye, I did. But he changed his mind at the last possible moment."

"So he told you not to, right?"

"No. It's complicated, but he didn't. Just had a change of heart at the right moment."

"Or at the wrong moment."

"We'll see."

"So you're still bound by the Code?"

"Afraid so."

"Oh well. Like I said, I'll look into it, and I can take care of him if it comes to that. Stay sharp, Grace, you hear me."

"Hey, it's -."

"-you. I know, that's why I said it."

"Alright, I will."

"Call me."

"I will."


	5. The Steel

**5. The Steel**

_They watched the rising of a different sun over a different valley. He had wrapped his dark gray-green cape around his shoulders, and she sat besides him back against the cold rock face._

_"There exists a quiet, sometimes almost serene moment, that precedes every battle," he said and pushed himself closer to the stone with his legs. "A moment marking a change in fate, in life, in death. A silent moment, a dream state, in which everything is clear, solid, resolute as you accept your fate, recognize the possibility of your death, the death of others by your hand and by the hands of others."_

_She smiled affectionately at his manner of speaking. He smiled too, though for a different reason and a different time._

_"At first it is a mere blink, a threshold you cross so swiftly that you only notice it when you have already moved past it. But every battle you survive adds to that moment, elongating it until it lasts even for hours, long sweet hours, until you take your weapon into your hand, and the drummer changes his pace, and yours."_

_She turned back towards the valley. He bent his right leg under him and stood up._

_"Time to go."_

* * *

He woke up abruptly just before the dawn. He found himself sitting in the camp-bed, neck and chest wet with sweat, gasping. He though that he had screamed but he couldn't remember for sure, though his throat was dry and oddly sore. He wiped his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt and ran both of his hands through his hair to sweep it back, away from his eyes. 

He closed his eyes. There had been a dream there somewhere in his mind. A memory, an experience relived, but now forgotten, gone again. He remembered liquid thicker than water and the feeling of drowning; burning in his lungs and on his bones. He felt the panic rise in his chest and he bit his teeth together to fight it back.

"Feeling better?"

The sudden voice startled him, but it was only Grace, grouching next to the bed in the predawn dusk. He drew his partly unsheathed claws back in.

"I'm fine," he grunted. "Just some fuckin' nightmare." He pushed himself up from the bed and marched to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He half expected her to follow, but she didn't. He drank the water, put the glass in the sink and settled to stare at the blueish dusky landscape through the window. She seemed to be keeping her distance and that suited him just fine.

The dream was still there, lingering in the borderland of his consciousness.

_The body remembers even if the mind doesn't._ He had heard it from someone. Or had read it from somewhere. Either or. _Who cares?_

The light outside was changing. The rising sun coloured the highest peaks in a bright, almost artificial tint of orange. The foothills were still in the shadow of the horizon, and the contrast against the mountains made the shadowed landscape seem darker.

_If my body remembers the pain_, he thought as he watched the orange light fall down the mountains' side, _then how about the rage?_

_Are my feelings an echo from my past?_

_Did the pain create the rage or was it there even before the pain?_

He closed his eyes and frowned trying to abandon the route to which his thoughts were heading. But the dream waited behind the closed eyelids.

_He was strapped down to a steel table: he could feel the wide leather restraints on his arms, torso and legs. They were bound tight and he couldn't move at all, not even his head. His hands were strapped down too, palms against the cool, keen steel._

_There was a set of eight blinding lights over him. A lamp of an operation theater he realized. He couldn't see beyond the light, but he could hear people talking. It didn't make any sense. He couldn't make out the words, couldn't hear what they were saying. They were talking about him. He knew it: they were talking about him._

_The panic hit him. It exploded in his chest and it ran through his veins, through his body, through his mind. And he wanted out, out, out, but he couldn't and then there was a face and he screamed, screamed with terror, but the anger was there too, lying behind the fear, waiting. He knew that the rage would always be there._

He forced his eyes open. His pulse was racing and his hands trembled as he opened the tap and let the water run over his head and face. The ice-cold water stung his skin, but it washed the panic away.

He calmed down a bit and he smelled Grace in the kitchen.

"What's the matter?" she said.

He closed the tap and wiped his face with a teatowel. It smelled of soap and slightly sour grease.

"A flashback - I think."

"The same as the dream?"

He thought about it. "Same place, but a different time."

She opened a closet and handed a proper towel to him. He dried his hair with it, rubbing briskly with both hands. She watched for a while and then turned to leave. He let the towel drop to his shoulders.

"Grace?"

She turned back towards him.

"Promise me you will kill me if I someday ask you to."

She crossed her arms and squinted looking at him, but then said: "I will, I promise."

"No questions asked and no tears shed."

"Your death is your own, Logan. No-one else's." Her eyes turned darker and she stared into the distance through him. This time he waited for her to speak.

"Any plans?"

Logan leered turning to her. "Yeah." He halted at her shoulder on his way back to the living room. "I will find the sons of bitches who made me into what I am," he said with a voice lacerated with malice, "and I will make them pay."

* * *

Logan stormed past me into the living room. I picked the towel from the floor and spread it out over the edge of the sink to dry. 

I glanced out through the window and felt a nudge in my mind. I closed my eyes and let my consciousness fan out through the house into the living room, where he was standing, frozen on his feet in the middle of the room; through the walls to the porch, to the backyard, across the yard and the fields; through the barn and the stables.

I opened my eyes and followed in his footsteps to the living room. He was still standing where I had felt him, eyes closed and listening.

"Logan," I whispered quietly. He raised his hand to hush me. I waited.

He turned to me after a moment, eyes narrow with a concerned frown.

"Grace," he said with a low voice,"I think there's someone outside."

I took step closer and took him by the hand. I tapped the back of his hand gently with my thumb.

"Do you know this?" I said.

"What?" He had a look of confused surprise on his face.

"This," I said and repeated the gesture.

/Oh, you mean this/ he sent back in Morse.

/Yes. There is 10-12 of them. They might be listening./

/OK/ he sent and lifted his brow questioningly. I smiled in return.

"Come to bed with me, Logan."

He looked at me doubtfully, but followed me to the bed. I lay down making room for him and he hesitated, but then followed my suit.

/They might have thermographs. I would be odd if we just stood there/ I sent.

/True/ he replied and wrapped his hands around me. I nudged closer to him.

/There is one behind the corner of the stables and another at the far end. Two behind the barn. Five in the woods in the east. One behind the trees in the field. Three in the woods in the west./

"You smell nice." /Thirteen./

/That I know of./

/How do you know/

/I have my ways. Trust me./ He squirmed adjusting his body, but then settled down.

/OK. A plan/ he asked.

/We can't go out now. They could make their move right then./

/They would know that we know. Let's wait till morning./

/If they storm in/ I asked.

Logan didn't reply for a while.

/Don't think so. They have the advantage in the open. They first tried to ambush me in my sleep. Twice before they took the hint. They will wait./

I considered the field.

/True. Let's wait./

* * *

He was warm. 

We were lying on our sides and his left arm was wrapped around my waist, holding me gently to his chest. It was hard not to delve into him. The taste of electricity was percolating through my skin where ever he was touching me. I tried to relax, but it only made things worse and I felt a nausea rise in my gut.

"What's wrong?" he whispered into my ear.

"Nothing." I had to lie. I had to try.

"Don't lie to me. I can smell it."

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing."

He was silent for some time. His chest pushed against my back and I heard him inhale slow and deep. He pulled his arm back, tucked it between us and pushed his whole body away from me. I sighed as the electric taste subsided in me.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked sounding small and hollow. "Why? You weren't before."

"It's not you," I said and turned to him.

He looked past me not believing what I was saying. I took him by his hand again.

/Do you know what there is inside you/

/Yes. A killer. An animal./

/No. I mean inside your body, around your bones./

He stifled a jolt and pulled his hand away. I waited in the pale dusk.

He took hold of my hand.

/Yes. Steel./ He avoided my eyes.

/It's not steel I think./

/What then/

/I don't know. I should take a closer look to find out./

/You want to cut me open/ he sent staring at me, scowling.

I scowled back disapprovingly.

/Remember the suspended animation/

He nodded.

/I can leave my body partially to delve into someone./ It was close enough. /And I can see into them. Feel their insides so to speak./ I couldn't help smiling slyly. I have been told I have a morbid taste of humour.

He stared at me expressionlessly.

/Can you read my mind/

/No/ I admitted. /It is not telepathy. It's different./

/Is that how you knew about them/

/Yes. It can be used to scan my environs./

He considered something.

/Is that how you found me/

/Yes and no. My friends found you first./

/And these friends of yours. Who are they/

/I would prefer not to tell./

That did visibly bother him, but he said nothing.

I could have sworn he pricked up his ears as he listened to a sound unhearable to me.

/Someone is moving just outside the house./ He focused back to me and smiled crookedly. "I think it's time for you to do your thing, darlin'."

I closed my eyes and merged, but there was no-one to be found behind the walls. I dispersed further out and found the soldiers where they had been before. Logan moved leaning closer to me and I opened my eyes.

"You tricked me." I felt the anger fuming in my voice. He sniffed my neck just below the ear nonchalantly.

"You know your scent changes when you do that," he breathed into my ear before pulling back. He laid his hand on my shoulder. /I wanted to see what happens/ he sent. /It is good to know that you can not be taken by surprise when you do that./

I delved into him.

The taste of electricity greeted me the minute I moved past his skin, but I ground my teeth together and moved past the panic too. The metal had taken me by surprise the first time around and the present repulsion was born from that first panicked retreat, not from the metal itself.

So I delved deeper in.

I knew he could feel me doing this. I made a few changes around the wrist and elbow, moved up to the shoulder and closed the deal. His hand was locked to my shoulder, and I was safe from an abrupt disconnection.

I knew he knew what I had done. He tried to move his arm the moment I changed the flow in his shoulder. He said something, cursed probably, but didn't try anything stupid.

There was a metal casing surrounding his bones. It covered every bone in a thin, smooth layer immaculately adapting where ever a vein, a muscle or a tendon connected with the bone, or where a cartilage joined the smooth metal bone.

It was astonishing, absolute.

I knew where it came from.

I moved to the surface, skimming barely below the skin and I opened my eyes.

"I know now, Logan." His hand was still frozen to my shoulder and I saw fear tint the colour of his eyes. I released his arm and delved out properly. He jerked his arm back closing his fist tightly.

"I'm sorry," I said. His eyes were cold. I moved my hand slowly to his forearm. /I was right. It is not steel but adamantium./

"What?"

/Adamantium. It is practically indestructible. - And it cannot be removed from your bones, not anymore./ His expression was hard and desolate.

"I'm sorry," I whispered and stroked his hair away from his eyes.

"I told you no tears."

"And there will be none in the end."

* * *

He snuggled up closer to her and realized, that she had been sleeping when she stirred up sharply. He moved slightly away remembering her discomfort earlier. 

"Grace, it's just me," he said and she turned onto her back yawning. "Did you sleep well, darlin'?"

She glanced at him with an amused smile in her eyes. "Fine," she answered and took his hand. "And you?"

"I didn't sleep." He tapped her hand gently/We should get ready./

She nodded.

"I had a dream," She said and climbed over him to get off the bed. "I was standing in front of a huge army, thousands of men clad up in leather and bronze." She disappeared into the kitchen. He got up, stretched and went after. She had put the kettle on and was cutting bread into thick slices. He leaned against the sink.

"It was unbelievably hot and the ground was cracked and there was sand in my mouth and dust in my eyes. A soldier brought me a cup of water and I drank it." She took bacon from the fridge and handed it to him. He grabbed a frying pan from a shelf next to the oven and put it on the gas stove.

"Got any eggs?" he asked.

"Aye, in the fridge," she said. The water began to boil and she made tea. "You'd better make the coffee yourself if you want some."

Logan smiled to himself and put the bacon into the pan. "Yeah, sure. Just leave me some water."

They ate the breakfast talking occasionally about made-up plans for the day. Grace finished first, closed her eyes and sat still for some time. He watched her from under his brow as he ate the last of the bacon and eggs. She opened her eyes and took her plate to the kitchen. She returned with a short staff in her hand.

"We should get going," she said. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, got up, took his jacket and put it on. She waited patiently. He met her by the door and hugged her.

/Are they still there/ he sent tapping her back with his finger.

/Yes. The same layout./

"Remember what you promised," he said. Her hair smelled of sleep, earth and anticipation.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be here if you need me." He felt her fingers on his neck, close to the scar. /We'll head for the car, OK/

"Alright."

She pulled away and opened the front door.

"You didn't tell me how the dream ended," he said and stepped out first pushing her aside on his way out.

"Oh, right. Like I said I was walking along the first line of the phalanges," she said casually as they crossed the porch. He heard movement from his left and gave her the slightest nod. He stepped down to the yard and waited for her.

"Then the men took their shields and drew their swords, and I secured my helmet." She went past him, heading for the car only a few more steps away. A gush of wind brought a scent to his nose and a low growl escaped his lips. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He waved his hand dismissively.

"I smiled to my men and they grinned back full of confidence for their skills of combat and the justifiability of their cause." She reached the car. He felt his hackles rise.

"And then someone gave the sign and -, "she said and opened the door.

Something hit him on the shoulder and he let his claws out. Grace took cover between the open door and the car and he dived after her. He took a quick look around to confirm that they were out of sight for the time being. He looked at Grace and she winked her eye at him. Suddenly she shrieked wordlessly making him jump.

"Oh please, God, help me!" she screamed. "He's gonna kill me! Oh please help me, please!"

He stood up pulling her along and shielding his body with hers. He held her still with his left arm across her chest and pressed his right hand claws to her throat drawing a little blood to show he meant business.

"Quit hiding and get out where I can see you or the bitch gets it!" he yelled at the hazy morning shadows and backed towards the house. He stumbled feeling disoriented and realized that the hit on his shoulder had been a dart of a tranquillizer gun. Grace screamed as he floundered again, and he prayed that his healing-ability could take care of the drug.

"Do it now!" he shouted feeling the panic rise inside him. "Get out into the open now or I will slice this lying whore open right here and now!" His peripheral vision was getting blurry and he stumbled yet again. The closest six soldiers stepped forward, assault riffles pointed at him.

He swallowed, fighting the urge to bolt.

"It's them," he said to her. "I caught their scent earlier and it's them." He was wavering and he knew he wouldn't have much longer. He couldn't shrug off the drug; they knew what would take him out.

"This won't work. This won't work, Grace."

Her scent changed and he felt her move inside him.

/Logan, trust me/ she sent through his forearm. /You will soon be fine, but you will collapse first./

"No, no, no!" he half screamed, half growled. The soldiers came closer and he waved his claws at them. "Keep clear!" he warned them, but they paid no attention to his shriek. He howled, pushed her aside and fell to the ground barely half a step into a leap at the closest soldier.

He came around quickly. Grace was still screaming and sobbing on the ground near by, and the soldiers were coming slowly closer. He kept his eyes closed and waited.

"Thank God you're here," he heard her say. "He wouldn't let me leave! He wouldn't let me go! Thank God you're here!" She sounded hysterical and he felt the doubt crawl into his mind.

He concentrated on the sounds.

Grace stood up; the first of the soldiers would soon be within his reach. Grace kept babbling in the background. Somebody came next to him and gave him a good kick to the ribs. Some of the muscles tore apart and healed. He didn't react.

The rage surfaced in him. It followed the same course the panic had taken, creeping through his body like heatless magma. It suffocated the fear and the doubt and he let it come.

It made him feel clear, focused, but he knew it wouldn't last.

"What are you doing?" he heard Grace shout. "Why are you pointing those guns at me? I've done nothing! Please -."

Logan leaped up taking the soldier next to him down with a punch through the breastplate. He smelled the blood, growled and lacerated the throat of the second soldier with his left hand claws. He took down three more soldiers before the remaining ones opened fire at him. He charged at them, ignored the bullets that buried into him and cut the men open, howling.

He spun around. Grace was standing near the car with a katana in her hand and five bodies at her feet. There was blood on her face and her clothes. Some of it appeared to be her own.

His wounds healed. His body discarded the bullets left in him, pushing them out. The deformed bullets clinked quietly as they hit the ground.

He was still enraged, leering over the slaughter, growling softly. He embraced the feeling for a while, but then it subsided and he felt cold.

Grace wiped the blade clean with the torn jacket of one of the dead soldiers and sheeted it. The sword turned back into a staff.

Logan looked down at his hands. The claws were still extended, covered in blood and sheared flesh. There was blood on his hands, arms, chest and torso; over his thighs and knees and lower legs. It seeped through his clothing and he felt sticky, disgusted. The after-effects of the adrenalin rush made his muscles tremble.

"Eejits," she spat.

"What?" He was confused. The blood on his hands had began to dry and it stretched his skin uncomfortably.

"Idiots," she repeated. "They should've shot us the minute we closed the door behind us. Or on the steps at the latest." She pushed one of the bodies over with her foot. The blade had cut the man almost in half, slicing him from the left shoulder to the right hip.

_They have a name specially for that cut_, he thought and tried to remember it, but the name slunk back into the haziness of his mind. _Makes no difference to him I suppose. He's still dead._

"We got them all," said Grace as she walked towards Logan, stepping over the dead on her way.

He took a quick look around.

"I guess so." He kneeled down next to the man he had killed first. The claws had pierced the breastplate nicely, evidently puncturing right into his heart. Every single one of the claws. _Like some damn cardiosurgery,_ he thought and lifted the body to take a look at the backside. The claws had passed through the man cutting his spine along the way.

_That wasn't the first time I did that. _He felt oddly proud and pleased. He let the body fall back down.

Logan stood up and counted the bodies himself. Something in the mayhem didn't add up.

"Where's the RTO?"

"He's over there." She pointed towards the eastern woods. "And dead," she added. She was going through the bodies, checking their belts and pockets. He left her to it and headed towards the treeline.

He rinsed his hands in a rainwater barrel at the corner of the house before retracting the claws. Grace had found something and was standing amongst the carnage, studying it. She had tucked the staff sword under her arm. She seemed satisfied and dropped that something on the dead soldier's chest. She headed for the stables. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared behind the building.

The sun was well above the horizon now, radiating light and warmth and false compassion across the landscape.

_It's nice up here_, he thought as he turned his back to the house and continued towards the forest. _Nice and quiet._


	6. The Trust

**6. The Trust**

Nick showed up few seconds after Logan had left. He emerged from the eastern forrest carrying the RTO's comm unit in his hand and a cigar between his teeth. I sat down on the steps.

Nick remained standing. He fiddled with the comm unit misleadingly oblivious to anything else, grunted approvingly and tossed the equipment towards the closest corpse in a lazily executed arch.

"They are getting better every year," he said.

I leaned backwards on my elbows against the porch floor.

"Yeah they do, don't they.

"Did you manage to get glimpse of Logan before he left?"

He smoked for a while in silence.

"Yeah, I did," he said, "and I know why he seems familiar."

I stood up.

"I have met him before. Briefly, but on several occasions." He dropped the cigar to the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of his boot. "I think you have met him too."

"I suspected that much, but I can't place him."

"Remember when I was in Vietnam and you dropped in to give a hand with that black ops fiasco?"

"Aye, the ghost ship incident. '65 was it?"

"'64, but who's counting?" We both smiled. "He," Nick said nodding at the road and long-gone Logan, "was one of the black ops fellows."

"But I thought he was a genuine canuck?"

Nick laughed: "Believe me, he is. To the bone. He was a mercenary back then."

I chewed my lover lip trying to remember. I recollected the weight of the humidity at night and the operation itself, but the faces of the men we had removed from the war space remained in the dark.

_Typical,_ I thought.

"I'm not surprised if you don't remember him. You met him only once. He was one mean son of a bitch back then." Nick looked at the corpses. "Still i,s it seems."

"Did he have the claws back then?"

"Can't really say," he confessed. "I never saw him use them, but the lack of evidence for something is not evidence to the contrary."

I couldn't help smiling. Nick checked the time from his wristwatch.

"The boys will be here any minute now."

"I really am sorry about the mess, Nick."

"I wish I could say it wasn't your fault," he said forcing me to meet his gaze, "but that wouldn't be true, now would it?"

"I honestly didn't expect anything like this." I stuffed my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and ran my eyes over the yard. "At first I thought that he was just plain paranoid and anything like this seemed so -." I sighed and decided to go in. Nick followed me and chose to sink into the couch when we got in. I sat down at the opposite end.

"I didn't take his paranoia seriously, not before those lads showed up."

"I told you to stay sharp, didn't I?"

"Yeah, yeah. But still -."

Outside the wind picked up suddenly and beat the dead soldiers pulling their clothes and hair and raising a thin dust storm from the ground.

"Oh good, the boys are here," Nick said and leaned over to pat my knee. "I'll be right back."

* * *

Logan watched the two transport helicopters take off and head south. He waited until Grace had gone back in before leaving. He crawled backwards for the first few yards retracing his path through the undergrowth. He then turned around, crawled forward all the way back to the old ravine-like ditch and followed it, crouching, until he reached the road. Only then did he stand up properly, dusted his clothes and climbed into the car Grace had given. 

_She might be one of them, _he thought. _Who else would have friends like that._

He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Something turned in his stomach.

"You fuckin' lyin' bitch," he said out loud. _I took your word for it._

_I took your word for it and this is who you are._

He squeezed the wheel with his hands, knuckles white and itching, and he screamed growling against the dashboard. The rage made his hackles rise.

He sat up, mouth in a thin line and started up the engine.

_You said you would kill me if I asked you to._

_You promised._

* * *

**Author's note:** This is not the end. This is merely the first part of "All Partial Evil". The following parts will be published as separate stories for the convenience of the readers since atleast I, though not necessarily everyne, find reading stories with 10+ chapters under same link tiresome. The following chapters will be published under the same name plus a serial number. 


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